


Too Much Love

by Meghadoota



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Sibling Incest, Wincest - Freeform, spn s13e23: let the good times roll
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-21
Updated: 2018-05-21
Packaged: 2019-05-09 21:18:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14723768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meghadoota/pseuds/Meghadoota
Summary: He stands there with Michael in front of him and Castiel behind him, while his heart lies far away in Lucifer's clutches."Dean, you can't!" protests Castiel.“I have no choice!” Dean exclaims, but that isn’t entirely true. There’s always a choice, but he made his choice long ago - he chose Sam, years and years and years ago, when he was four and Sam was six months old and he promised Sam everything would be okay. He chose Sam over everything and everyone. He always did and he always will, even over himself, because Sam is life, and Sam is Dean’s entire world, because there’s no Dean without Sam.





	Too Much Love

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [【翻譯】Too Much Love](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14778260) by [Smilock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smilock/pseuds/Smilock)



[Smilock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smilock/pseuds/Smilock) has translated this story into Chinese at [Too Much Love](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14778260/chapters/34179215), in case there are any readers here who want to read it :)

* * *

 

He stands there, with an archangel in front of him, and an angel behind him, while his heart lies far away, in Lucifer’s clutches.

“If we work together, can we beat Lucifer?” he demands of Michael.

“Dean—” Cass begins to protest.

“Can we?” roars Dean.

“We have a chance,” replies Michael, eyes dark and glittering.

“Dean, you can’t!” protests Castiel.

Dean rounds on the angel, at a loss of words. Because _how_ can he tell him what Sam means to him? Lucifer has Sam, damn it! Lucifer has _Sammy! –_ Sammy, who is _everything!_ The baby lying in Mommy’s arms, eyes blue and sleepy, yet eyes that opened wide and curious when Dean held his little hand, marvelling at how small and soft it was, marvelling at the tiny fingernails, and giggling when Sammy gripped his hand tight, unwilling to let go. Sam is Dad’s _Sammy_ too – thin and bony, messy-haired, the little baby Dad put into his arms on that fateful night, the boy who grew up to butt heads with Dad ever so often, all the tiffs and the arguments and the screaming match when Sam went off to Stanford which Dean couldn’t put a stop to… but Dad’s quiet pride and joy, with those dimples like Dad, and all of Dad’s hunting skills… of days and nights spent together in Baby, just the three of them – Daddy, Sammy, and Dean.

Sam is all the colours in Dean’s life. Sam is the golden-brown of the floppy mop of hair that darkened as Sammy grew up. Sam is green and gold and hazel and grey and blue, all the shades that fleck his eyes when the sun shines hot and bright over Baby as they go around the country. Sam is the black of night, the firm, solid shape that lies next to Dean, discernible even in the darkness, dark yet _there_ , when Dean crawled into his Sammy’s crib when he was a baby, in the back seat of the Impala when they were young and Dad drove them all around, in the countless motel room beds they shared as kids, all the beds they still share. Sam is the white of his teeth, of his laugh that lights up his face. Sam is yellow and gold, brighter than the sun when he smiles one of his rare, twinkly-eyed smiles. Sam is the pale pinkish-white of the little scar on his hip, the one only Dean knows he has, the one he got on a werewolf hunt with Dad, years ago – the scar that Dean traces with his tongue on dark nights, making Sam’s stomach tighten, his fingers clutching at Dean’s hair as his mouth sucks at the scar and then lower down. Sam is rosy pink too – the flush that suffuses his skin when Dean moves over him, whispering filthy words in his ear that makes Sam’s pupils blow wide and dark, the pink flush spreading over his throat and his chest, right down to the tip of his swollen, eager cock.

Sam is night and Sam is day and everything in between, and Sam is all the seasons in Dean’s life – the hot, sweaty, irritable little brother in the heat of sunny summers. Sam is the warmth and the colours of spring, of the lush green meadows and the flowers that blossom all around when they traverse across the countryside, Sam’s eyes bright, with the little crinkles that have framed them in recent years, a little smile playing at his lips as he gazes at all the beauty nature has on offer. Sam is winter too – freezing nights spent cuddled together when they were kids and Dad was away, giant hands warmed on the smoking remains of a salt-and-burn, palms that slip under Dean’s shirt, tugging it off him, and then mapping every inch of Dean’s skin, every freckle, every contour of Dean’s body – everything, _all_ of Dean that belongs only to Sam.

Sam is the fruity scent of his stupid girly shampoo, too – one that Dean teases him about, but the scent he secretly loves because it is so utterly, completely _Sam._ Sam is the scent of Dad’s cologne – the one Sam put all over himself the first time he went on a date with a girl in high school. Sam is the scent of their childhood too – the baby smell of him when he was a kid, the smoky scent of their old house as it burnt, his little blanket-clad weight held tightly in Dean’s arms as he carried Sam out of the flaming house, the scent of old, ancient books from all the time a young Sam spent researching for them in libraries, the scent of Baby, of engine oil and Dad’s leather jacket and two little boys sitting close in the back seat, bickering sometimes, whispering secrets sometimes, sharing stories and smiles and laughs and sniffles. Sam is the scent of hunting too – the tangy, metallic smell of blood, the lingering scent of burnt bones that clings to them sometimes, the scent of gunpowder and rock salt and silver, of holy oil and burning hex bags. Sam is the scent of just _Sam_ too – the scent of his sweat and of his hair and the detergent smell of his flannel shirts, and Sam is the musky, salty, _Sammy_ scent that floods Dean’s nose when he sucks his brother’s cock.

Sam is peace and silence – hours and hours spent driving around quietly, but a quiet so comfortable that Dean knows he’ll never share something like it with anyone else. Sam is music – Led Zeppelin and Styx and AC/DC and Metallica, and Sam’s bitch-face when Dean ups the volume too loud, and Dean’s smile when he sees Sam’s large foot tapping in tandem with the beats. Sam is _Dead or Alive,_ and _Night Moves,_ and Sam is Mom’s _Hey Jude, too._ Sam is soft snores, and loud laughter, and the giggles when Dean used to tickle him when they were kids. Sam is the sound of guffaws at even Dean’s lamest jokes, and Sam is the roar of Baby’s engine and the sound of her smooth wheels and the little creak of her doors. Sam is the sound of the knife scratching on wood to carve their initials, and Sam is the sound of enochian spells and latin excorcisms, and the satisifying  _thud_ of a vampire's severed head. Sam is the loud, worried shout of _Dean!_ on hunts gone bad, and Sam is the last word Dean has uttered every time he died. Sam is the voice that Dean wakes up to, and the voice that whispers in his ears at nights spent making love to each other, or ones when they’re rough and hot, a tangle of limbs and a clash of lips and teeth and tongues, and grunting and thrusting and heaving and hearts thudding loud and in tandem with each other, the sound of slick skin sliding, and of Sam’s erratic breathing, and the sound of his moan when he comes all over Dean’s belly.

Sam is a fucking language all together – a language only Dean and he speak… a language of cheeky grins and raised eyebrows and smirks and winks, and a touch of his hand on Sammy’s back, and the trembling hands cupping Dean’s face after bloodied hunts, the language of Sam’s fists that tear open Dean’s shirt, fingers fluttering worriedly over every inch of skin to check for injuries, of silently stitching Dean’s wounds with all the gentleness that one would never expect of a hunter. A language of signs and hand signals that they’ve created over all the many years spent hunting together, the language of the soft footsteps following Dean closely into haunted houses and vampire lairs and werewolf-ridden forests, assuring him that his brother always has his back, a language of silent gestures, of spur-of-the-moment plans made in the face of certain danger that work out so well that Sam could very well have read Dean’s mind. Sam is _jerk_ and _bitch,_ and _you’re my brother and there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you,_ and Sam is _I’m here to take you home._ Hell, Sam _is_ home. Home is wherever Sam is – whether it’s musty motel rooms or the bunker or in Baby, or in a bloody different universe with loud roaring creatures, with smoked lizards for dinner and only each other for company.

Sam is faith, and Sam is sacrifice, and Sam is hope too. Sam is the one who keeps faith when Dean loses his own, Sam is all the sacrifices his little brother’s made for the world, time and again, and again, and again – the bloody selfless son of a bitch that he is. Sam is courage and bravery and selflessness and unfailing kindness. Sam is hope – the hope that keeps Dean alive and going every fucking time he loses his shit. Sam is the light that shines at the end of every tunnel Dean digs himself into. Sam _is_ light – the light that lights up Dean’s world and makes everything shine brighter for Dean, even in the darkest of times. Sam is Dean’s very humanity – the one thing that keeps him sane and human. Sam is never giving up – not when Dean lay in Death’s door from the Rawhead hunt, not when Dean went to hell, not when Dean turned into a fucking demon, or the heartless kill-machine with the Mark of Cain, when Dean thought Mom was dead in the apocalypse world, but Sammy still kept hope.

 “Dean—” protests Castiel, even as Dean knows he could never explain this to the angel, to anyone, hell, even to Sam himself. There aren’t enough words in the entire universe to describe what Sam means to him.

“Lucifer has Sam!” He almost shouts at Castiel. “And Jack!” he adds, because if he gives in to his terror, his panic, the chant of _Sam-Sam-Sam-Sam_ that is ringing in his years, hammering at his mind and heart, to the fear that is seeping deeper and deeper into his bones, into his very bloody soul – the fear of losing Sam again, _all over again_ , in a matter of fucking days.

“I have no choice!” he exclaims, but that isn’t entirely true. There’s always a choice, but he made his choice long ago. He chose Sam, years and years and years ago, when he was four and Sam was six months old and he promised Sam everything would be okay. He chose Sam over everything and everyone. He always did and he always will, even over himself, because Sam is _life_ , and Sam is Dean’s _entire world_ , and Sam _is_ Dean – because there’s no Dean without Sam… because they’re one – _SamandDean, SamandDean, SamandDean,_ it’s what they’ve always been, _together_ always, two bodies, but one soul – however fucking chick-flick-y that sounds.

 “It’s a one-time deal,” he tells Michael, because all he needs is _one_ chance, _one_ shot at doing his very fucking best to save his brother from the devil’s clutches, the brother whose life means more than everything else, who’s more than Dean’s very life itself.

It may not even work out, Lucifer could end up killing him for all he knows. But he’s going to protect Sam and he’s going to save him and he’s going to keep him alive – he’s going to go to hell and heaven and even the fucking Empty and back for his brother. And if he can’t… well, if he dies – and he _will_ if cannot save Sam from the devil – he’s going to die with his little brother, with Sam's name on his lips, with Sam’s face being the last thing his eyes ever see, because Sam is his past, and Sam is his present, and because there’s no future if Sam isn’t in it… because Sam is the other half of him, and Sam makes him whole… because Sam is Dean, and Dean is Sam, and he’s going to save his brother or die trying.

**Author's Note:**

> This is only my second foray into writing Wincest, and I hope it's turned out alright.  
> (This was previously titled 'Sam'.)  
> Thank you for reading! :)


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